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THE LOVE DRUNKS
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So what’s my point (at long last)? The Love Drunks, a quartet of greasy ne’er-do-wells from Atlanta, have that falling-down-the-stairs sound down cold – I don’t know if anyone shoved ‘em down the cellar steps during the recording of their self-titled debut, but they definitely cultivate a look-out-below feel in their rootsy greasemonkey crankrock. Frontman Patrick A. is already hoarse and breathless before the first minute has ticked down on the opener, “Sketch,” but he hurls himself into every song as if the mic is his only source of oxygen, and the rest of the band lurches and stomps behind him, spraying Oblivions/Blues Explosion-style mutant blues licks as they rip through their songs, which seem to center around wild girls and the perils of getting involved with them (“Women and living, they just don’t mix”, “I see you doing blow and I’m expecting more/Now you’re givin’ head and this is what you said/I’m tired of being alone…” you get the idea) . Well, shit, I could’ve told you that it was a bad idea to mess with those girls, but then, you wouldn’t have raised this glorious ruckus. Back at it, then – just watch that top step. ________________________________________________________ |
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-Paul Gaita |
I
remember reading an interview with either Lux or Ivy from The Cramps in
which they described one of their favorite songs, a prehistoric rocker by
Terry Dunavan called “Earthquake Boogie” as sounding like the whole band
was falling down a flight of stairs while they were banging out the tune.
I like that image a lot because it sums up a really unique mindset as well
as sound – who the hell would keep twanging on a guitar or plinking on a
piano while they took a header down a set of hard wooden steps (or worse,
a concrete flight, like at a courthouse or library)? You’d have to be
pretty damn dedicated to getting out that song, wouldn’t you? Dedicated
enough to not mind cracking your skull or snapping an arm or leg, or jeez,
having the drum kit fall on your ass? And don’t forget that while you’re
flipping ass-over-teakettle, there’s four or five other guys bouncing down
the steps with you, and they’re all doing their best to knock out that
number too. I don’t know what that says to you, but for me, anyone who’d
willingly (or otherwise) put up with that is crazier than a shithouse
mouse, but I’ll bet you that when they finally hit the bottom of those
steps, that tune sounded pretty good. Well, maybe not good, but you’ve
gotta respect the drive behind it. Something like that.